Moving On
by Dlvvanzor
Summary: Takes place many years after 'For You, I Would.' Matt has never really gotten over it. Luckily the Mafia is done with Matt now, too. MxM oneshot, Matt POV.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.**

**A/N: Prepare for the angst and the hurt and the comfort and the wrench! This is a follow-up/ epilogue to 'For You, I Would.' :D I dunno if it will make sense if you haven't read the fic, but it might? Also, some credit has to go to The Wish List by Eoin Colfer. A little concept from this is similar to how he ends The Wish List and I don't wanna disrespect such a FREAKING EPIC AUTHOR WHO I SAW IN REAL LIFE AND IT WAS SO AWESOME, so I'm giving him credit. :D**

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**Matt POV**

You have to go on, right?

That's what people told me, when I called back to Wammy's to report Mello's death. I still remember that call, even though it was... what... forty years ago?

I would know exactly how long it had been if I remembered how long it was between Mello's death- when I murdered him- and when I made the call. Unfortunately, although I imagine it was less than a month, I don't remember anything from that time.

I'm sure there wasn't much to remember, anyway.

Because really, besides hacking for the damn Mafia and hating every moment of existence because it was the only thing keeping me from _him_, there wasn't much room to think about anything else.

You would think that it would hurt less after forty years, and mostly it does. I guess instead of the sharp, agonizing waves of pain that it used to be, it's now a constant, throbbing, dull ache in the back of my mind and somewhere behind my sternum. I've tried everything to sooth it, and some things worked temporarily, until I did them so much that they didn't anymore.

But I never killed myself. Because apparently you have to go on.

I'm not entirely sure why, but I'm hoping that I'll figure it out in the near future.

Not that I have much of a future at this point. I'm almost sixty now, and while I've improved my hacking (exponentially) over time, I'm getting old. My reflexes aren't fast enough and it's getting to the point where upgrading and learning new techniques is hard. I'm also getting arthritis in my knuckles (knew I shouldn't have popped them all my life) and my wrists, which has been slowing me down at inopportune moments during time-important hacks. There are better people, now, and it's not like the Mafia has ever been about employee loyalty.

So, here I sit. In a cell, in the dark, where they keep traitors and people they're tired of. Where Mello probably sat before coming out and taking the bullet.

I never figured out why Mello moved into the bullet. Maybe he hated himself for all the things he did. As a hacker, I had done illegal stuff (a _lot_) but really nothing that would justify suicide. I was also pretty insulated from the rest of Mafia affairs, and I sure as hell never tried to look into their procedures. Maybe he had done something so bad that there was no coming back from it. Maybe he knew something I didn't.

But it doesn't really change the fact that he killed himself on _my_ bullet, and left me alone.

By all means, I should hate him for that, shouldn't I? I must admit, for a while I tried to, and for an even _shorter_ length of time I actually succeeded. It wasn't pretty, though. Instead of sad I was angry all the time, and it wasn't any better.

Now, it's just hard. No pictures of him exist, so the only image I have of him is the one in my brain, and my memory isn't perfect. I'm forgetting little things. I can't remember the exact shade of his hair or exactly how tall he was. I don't remember his fingers or the little scars on his legs, chest, and back that I used to know by heart, used to kiss. I can't conjure up his face.

But at night when I go to bed, I still hold his hand, even though he's not there. I still sleep on 'my' side of the bed, even though there's no one taking up the other half. I still remember what his hands felt like on my skin, the brush of his hair on my neck, the taste of him. I still smell the faint scent of chocolate that always lingered wherever he had been.

The door to my cell opened and a young thug (it seemed like everyone was younger than me, now) stood in it, glowing against the brightly lit hallway. He glowered at me, trying to look tough and hide that he wasn't even through his first _year _of Mafia service. "Come on," he said gruffly.

My face an impenetrable mask, hiding my amusement at this young man, I stood up without a word, joints creaking, and silently followed him down what was possibly the longest hallway in the world. Just a hallway, a room, and a bullet between me and Mello. It was about damn time.

He stopped in front of a door, fiddling with some keys to unlock it. It was the room where I'd shot Mello. My gut told me so, and when it came to things like this my gut was never wrong. Just a room and a bullet between me and Mello.

He finally got the fucking door open and, as if I hadn't been cooperating perfectly the whole time, grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and tossed me into the room.

I landed on my hands and knees, which screamed their protest, and now there was just a bullet between me and Mello.

I got painfully to my feet to face the potential new recruit. He was terrified, shaking, staring at me with wide eyes and looking between me and the gun. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, and he had clearly never killed anyone. I had learned to recognize by sight who had and who hadn't. There are some pretty distinct signs.

Just a bullet. Just one bullet.

But the kid was hesitating, and now he was lowering his gun...

I smiled at him, smashing all my hurt and age and _loneliness _into it so he could know that I was dead serious, pun intended. It had to end. I couldn't take it any longer, but it wouldn't end for a while yet unless someone else ended it _for_ me.

"Please, kid," I said quietly.

He lowered his gun a little more.

"Do it. _Please_ do it."

He frowned.

I pointed to my head, exactly where Mello had taken the bullet for reasons I would never know. "Right here. Do it."

Still, nothing. There was just a bullet between me and Mello and this _child_ wouldn't just fucking _proceed_ and let it be over.

"Kid. I'm begging you. Please."

We stared at each other for a long time. Then, arms shaking, he raised the gun, took aim (hmm, too far to the left, it wouldn't be exactly where I hit Mello), and fired.

I leaned into it so it would be the same location, and then pain exploded through my system and I hit the floor, hard.

The kid ran over to me, tears already flowing down his cheeks, but maybe the smile I had on my face- my first real smile in decades- would assuage the nightmares.

But it didn't really matter to me.

All I was aware of was light. Beautiful and white and clear and irresistible.

A light and the faint smell of chocolate.


End file.
